


Erulaitalë

by AnnaFan



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Skimpy clothing, mildly smutty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 09:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5581141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaFan/pseuds/AnnaFan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Christmas present for Sian, based on her wonderful (and prize-winning) fic, The Bride Price.  We know how impressed Aragorn was when Elphir's wife lied with a completely straight face and told Eomer that she had painted the Tengwar lines and symbols onto Faramir's body in preparation for the obstacle course.  But who really did it?  The answer is obvious, but the fun is in the telling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Erulaitalë

Erulaitalë

 

Éowyn could barely keep a straight face as she and Mareth bore their precious parcels into the anteroom where Elphir and Faramir waited for them. She could feel her lip twitching as she held out the bundle, wrapped in thin silk and bound with a ribbon. With an answering quirk at the corner of his mouth, Faramir took the gift.

Carefully, he laid it on the low day-bed and unwrapped it. From within the flimsy silk, a white garment of fine linen emerged. He held it up by the waist and gave it a shake, allowing the pleats to fall into place.

“Beautifully made, my Shieldmaiden. To think that you told me you had no skill with the needle...”

“Not in the general run of things, but in this case I found myself... inspired.” Éowyn could suppress the grin no longer. “Have I got it right? I followed the measurements you sent me but it looks... very short.”

Faramir grinned too, a somewhat wolfish grin. “It's meant to be, my lady. It is like unto the Silvan battle kilts, and not meant to get in one's way at the height of the action. I hope you are not shocked.”

“Not shocked... Intrigued. Looking forward to how it will look on you.” Éowyn's eyes met Faramir's, and Faramir's stomach did a kind of somersault as he registered the look of mingled challenge and desire on her face.

Princess Mareth gave a cough, and Éowyn blushed slightly, suddenly remembering the other couple were in the room.

“Come, my Lady Éowyn, let us retire and allow the men to change. We shall return shortly with the blue ink.” She led Éowyn from the room. 

Mareth watched with amusement as Éowyn paced up and down impatiently. The minutes seemed to stretch interminably, before Elphir returned. Éowyn's jaw dropped: Mareth's husband cut a very fine and rather attractive figure in his kilt, which was indeed rather short. _Béma's horse, what would Faramir look like?_ But she didn't have to wait long. Handing her a roll of parchment, Mareth picked up the bag of brushes and pot of ink, then took Éowyn's free hand and led her back up the passageway to the door to Faramir's chamber.

“I shall leave you here with the art supplies,” Mareth said with a barely suppressed chuckle, “On condition that the two of you leave this door wide open and bear in mind that Elphir and I are but a handful of paces away.”

Mareth wasn't quite sure whether Éowyn had actually heard these words: the shieldmaiden was standing rooted to the spot, staring wide-eyed at her betrothed. With a little shake of her head, Mareth gave her the ink and brushes, then retreated.

Éowyn had, very early on in their acquaintance, registered the fact that Faramir was a fine figure of a man (at that time more as a vague intellectual curiosity than anything else, her emotions having been dulled by all she had gone through). Even clothed, she had noted his broad shoulders, slender hips, long, graceful legs, the slim yet deceptive strength of his body. But this... this was something else entirely. A broad, firm chest, dusted with dark hair. What would that feel like beneath her fingertips? Muscles on his belly which stood out in hard ridges, the band of the kilt hanging low upon his hips. His thighs, strong and solid-looking, shapely calves...

Completely absorbed in her examination, she was startled by a rather theatrical cough, as Faramir pretended to clear his throat. “Do I take it my lady is pleased with the end result of her needlework? Does it please your eye?”

“Yes, oh, yes indeed,” she stammered, and the way Faramir raised his eyebrows conveyed that he was under no illusion at all as to whether she meant the kilt. Blushing she stepped closer, clutching the inkpot and brushes. With a grin, Faramir spread the parchment upon the table. 

“Will you be able to copy the tengwar?” he asked.

“Yes, for though I prefer to write in the cirth, my tutor insisted I learn tengwar as well. But I have no idea what these words mean.”

“I will translate as you go along,” said Faramir, with a sparkle in his eye that left Éowyn feeling suddenly as though the room had less air in it than it had a moment earlier..

“Will you also tell me where each phrase goes?” she said, almost tripping over the words.

There was something about the set of Faramir's mouth and the way he looked at her; she knew that he had noticed her reaction. The timbre of his voice seemed to change in response as he answered, deeper, softer, caressing. “Yes, each sentence, and the symbols too, and their significance.” He looked her straight in the eye, a look which left her in no doubt that he knew exactly the effect he was having on her.

“Which one do I start with?” Éowyn felt surprised that her voice did not waver.

“This one – it goes upon my left arm, starting at the wrist, and going up to my bicep.” Faramir paused, then chanted slowly and rhythmically, ancient sonorous words. The words themselves meant nothing to Éowyn, but the richness of his voice left her captivated. Then he switched back to the common tongue. “ _Behold, my bridegroom approaches, the one whose kisses are like honey upon my lips._ ”

Fingers trembling slightly, Éowyn picked up the brush and dipped it in the blue paint. She laid her left hand on Faramir's arm to steady herself, and gasped at the warmth of his skin. She had held his hand, laid her hand upon his clothed arm, but this... this was a whole new thing. His body, apart from the rather limited area covered by the kilt, was now hers to touch. For a moment she shut her eyes, trying to collect herself, then tried to concentrate on the task of copying the script from the parchment onto his arm. Try as she might, though, she couldn't ignore the sinews of his forearm, the way the brush caught on the dark dusting of hairs, the muscles beneath the smooth skin of his bicep. 

As her right hand had made its way upwards, brush in hand, she'd lost track of what her left was doing. It was only now that she put the finishing flourish to the last letter that she realised her other hand rested on his collar bone, and that her face was inches from his. With a swift movement, he dipped his head and kissed her, tongue stroking her lower lip for just a moment, tantalising for an instant, then withdrawn.

“Better than honey.” The words were whispered into her ear.

For a moment Éowyn stood motionless. She wanted to drag him closer to her, but was check-mated by her desire not to smudge the paint. She allowed her fingers to stray up his throat and along his jaw line, then decided to counterattack. “And this phrase? More kisses?” she said hopefully.

Again, that rich caressing voice, then Faramir translated once more. “ _Behold, my bride approaches, the one whose skin is like byssus, the silk of the sea, beneath my fingers._ ”

Éowyn dipped the brush once more and applied herself. Raising her eyebrows, knowing full well that she had him captive because of the situation, she murmured, “But it is your skin, warm and supple, that I get to feel beneath my fingers.” She bent her head and turned it slightly to work on his other forearm, and as she did so, Faramir leant in and brushed his lips across the nape of her neck.

“Oh, I will get my turn, do not fear. And I shall make sure I touch every single inch of your silken skin. And I shall take my time, lingering in delight.”

Éowyn drew in a sharp breath. Really there were only two courses of action: succumb to his embrace and smudge blue paint over both of them, or...

She stepped back sharply.

“Faramir, behave yourself. Your cousin and his wife are just across the passageway, and we have, as promised, left the door open.”

Faramir pretended to pout, and Éowyn gave a helpless giggle. Gasping for breath, she got herself back under control and pointed to the next sentence.

“Where does this one go?”

“On my chest.” Faramir recited some more of the melodic words, then translated again. “ _Behold my groom: there is strength in his arm and power in his stance. He is like unto the lion of the plain, or the fierce eagle of the air._ ”

 

Sentence after sentence was added to his body. Éowyn's fingers lingered on the rippling cords of his stomach as she wrote: “ _Behold my bride: her breasts are as ripe pomegranates in my hands, her belly curves with life beneath my fingers._ ” Her palm splayed across the hot, smooth skin between his sharp shoulder blades as she inked, “ _Behold my groom: his limbs are clean and strong. They sweep me up, they support me, they enfold me._ ” Her breath caught in her throat as she touched the small of his back, just above the waistband of the kilt, and inscribed, “ _Behold my bride: she is supple as tempered metal, and fiery as metal from the furnace, burning with passion new found._ ”

She stepped back for a moment, admiring both her handiwork and his body beneath. Faramir reached out and took her hand, stroking her fingers, his eyes locked on hers. His voice was hoarse as he whispered, “It is as well that my cousins insisted we leave the door open, for the thought of your supple limbs and the heat of your passion nearly undoes my resolve...”

Éowyn lifted his fingers to his lips and kissed them lightly, then, wondering at the urge which seemed to come from nowhere, ran the point of her tongue along each finger in turn. Faramir gave a groan. His eyelids shut, dark lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

Éowyn could feel her pulse racing, her blood pulsing like fire. She might be inexperienced, but she had a good enough imagination (and enough experience of horse breeding) to have a fairly accurate idea of what was being talked about. All there was between the two of them was his kilt (which frankly did not amount to much) and her dress and shift (which could be unlaced easily enough). She could tell from the way he was looking at her that he was thinking exactly the same thoughts – his lips were parted, his pupils wide and dark, his breathing slightly ragged. What would it take to tip them both over the edge? What sort of scandal would ensue if Elphir and Mareth walked in?

She swallowed hard. She had to somehow complete the task. “What of the symbols and the two remaining sentences next to them?”

Again, Faramir's warm baritone recited the words in Quenya, their rhythm seeming to match the beat of her heart, the richness of his voice enveloping her in a hot wave of desire. “ _For love brings paradoxes: that my groom may at once stand proud in his manliness yet at the same recline in the languor of his passion._ The ear of wheat goes on my belly. It is for fecundity, and because its upright stance... well...”

Éowyn knew she was blushing. Béma, this was not helping her keep control. Her fingers brushed his stomach muscles. Hard, lying in ridges beneath her finger tips, his skin warm. This really, really was not helping her keep control. The symbol came out with slightly wavy outlines. But yes, it was upright, drawn against the centre of his belly... Éowyn had a sudden, vivid image flash before her mind's eye, of strong, calloused hands lifting her onto the table, crumpling the parchment, scattering the paints, her skirts hitched around her waist, his kilt cast aside, no need to imagine a painted sheaf of wheat hard and upright against his belly because the real... No, no, she must not go there.

“And this flower?” Her voice trembled.

“It goes here...” Faramir placed her hand on his chest. “Above my heart. It symbolises how bodily union and spiritual union go hand in hand.” He chanted the next line of the poem, then translated once more, “ _For love brings paradoxes: that I may only take joy in my bride's surrender if I too surrender, that we may both become lost in our passion._ ”

“At least it's not as obvious as the ear of wheat,” Éowyn muttered, setting to work once more with the paint brush. She heard a quiet snort from Faramir and looked up. One of those shapely black eyebrows (which seemed to possess a strange ability to melt her insides) was raised suggestively.

“What?” said Éowyn, impatiently. She wondered where on earth this strange Numenorean symbolism could be going next. At least the puzzle had taken her mind off vivid images of being taken, right here, right now, upon the table. Or it had, until she reminded herself just now... dammit!

“It's a calla lily...” Now it was her turn to quirk an eyebrow, this time in confusion. Faramir continued, leaning very close and whispering in her ear, in a low, husky voice, “It looks like the entrance to a woman's most secret, innermost part... or so it is said...”

“Or so it is said?” repeated Éowyn, both eyebrows now raised, a slightly amused look on her face. Then her famous pragmatic Rohirric streak reasserted itself. “Well, I wouldn't know. I'm not double jointed you know. I can't get my head down there to look...”

At these words, the building tension suddenly drained away, and both of them burst out laughing. Quite fortuitously, as luck would have it, for Mareth picked that moment to walk back into the room.

~o~O~o~ 

_Much later, at the feast after the “Bride Stealing” obstacle course..._

~o~O~o~ 

“It doesn't look anything like, you know,” Éowyn murmured to her betrothed.

“What doesn't look like what?” he replied, voice slightly muffled by the housekeeper's excellent bread.

“Like a calla lily.”

Faramir's eyes widened in surprise. In a rather unconvincing attempt at nonchalance, he raised his goblet to his lips and took a sip.

“I used the little hand looking glass our housekeeper gave me on my fourteenth birthday...”

From the other end of the table, Imrahil looked on with some curiosity as his nephew turned bright red and choked on his wine.


End file.
